The Golden Age of Murder
by Leaper
Summary: Casefic. An encounter at a book signing inspires Castle to try to solve a classic whodunnit-style mystery. He gets his chance in the slaying of a wealthy businessman, but are his little grey cells up to the challenge?
1. Chapter 1

**AN: First time writing for this show, but I love mysteries, and I had an idea for one I just couldn't ignore. This may be slow to update, depending, but the puzzle has been hanging in my brain for a while now, so I _will_ finish.**

Book signings were, for Richard Castle, a combination of the routine and the novel (pun intended).

Sure, the actions were the same, the signatures too, of course, but the people... Ah, the people. Always new people of all ages, races, genders, walks of life...

It felt good, knowing that he reached a wide range of demographics.

And each one of those people had their own little story to tell, even if they didn't say a single word aloud. It was a bit of an amusement to Castle to try to figure out those stories in the brief seconds he had with each fan. Hell, he'd gotten a couple of good book ideas that way...

Take the man at the head of the line right this very moment. Asian, late thirties or early forties, tall, gangly and bespectacled. The way he was gripping his copy of _Heat of the Moment_ , the way his limbs almost jiggled, bespoke of some low level anxiety, or impatience, or nervousness. Hard to tell which.

"And you are...?" he asked as he took the book from the man's grip.

"Andrew," was the reply; Castle automatically wrote "To Andrew" on the flyleaf, his mind already working to create some kind of pithy message that Andrew No-Last-Name-Given could look at over the years, and chuckle fondly over. "I really love this series, Mr. Castle."

"And I love writing it," he said sincerely, his pen scratching out the words, "may your days be filled with happiness, and your nights with bloody murder." (Not his best, to be sure, but good enough.)

"I always look forward to your stories," Andrew said as Castle wrote out his flowing signature. "I hope someday you'll write real mysteries!"

The pen froze, causing an ugly black dot to form at the end of the final "e." "'Real' mysteries?" he repeated, his voice tight.

"Oh, yeah. I grew up on Agatha Christie, Ellery Queen... You know, Golden Age mysteries. Mysteries are made to be solved, right? But so much of the stuff that's in the mystery section these days, you _can't_ figure out. They're just crime thrillers, with some shadowy conspiracy or something, and the killer gets found by luck, or he's obvious all along, or else he just gets revealed without any buildup. There's no clues, no investigation, just car chases and gunfire, and I don't think that truly gets to what mysteries are supposed to be about." Andrew prattled on, heedless of the death glare he was getting from one of his favorite authors. "Mysteries are supposed to be a challenge to the reader, something to _think_ about, a... a _duel_ between them and the writer: the writer presents a puzzle, and dares the reader to solve it. That's what a _real_ mystery is to me, and I think it's a shame that there are so few people who can write the kind of masterpieces that—"

Castle stared.

Finally, _finally_ , he became conscious of the expression on the man in front of him. The somewhat distracted smile shattered from his face. "Oh! B-but not that what you write isn't good!"

Castle stared.

"They're great... for what they are!"

Castle stared.

"And it's great that there's so much variety in the mystery section these days! I mean, not everyone can write something as intellectual and cerebral as a real—"

Castle stared.

"Y-you know what? I'm holding up the line. I'm just gonna... go." Andrew pointed over his right shoulder with both hands. "Go. Now." He scurried off.

Then he came back, snatched the book up off the table in front of Castle, and scurried off again.

The next reader in line was a middle aged woman who looked, honestly, a little frightened. "I think your books are very well written," she said with wide eyes.

Castle ripped the book out of her grasp so hard it almost took the ring off her finger.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Oh, yes, let's say this takes place during... S6.**

"I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it, Dad," Alexis said as calmly as she could, hoping some of that calm would transmit itself to her father. It didn't.

"The nerve of him!" Castle said for the fifth time, pacing the living room. "Coming to one of my signings and saying, _to my face_ , that I don't write 'real' mysteries!"

"He probably didn't mean to—"

"But he did! What's he doing reading my books if he thinks they're infecting his _precious_ mystery section with _mere_ crime thrillers?"

* * *

"And it's not like _I_ make the decision where to put my books in the store, or what to name the categories! I mean, sure, _I_ call them mysteries, but it's not like I'd be the first! And there _is_ a mystery involved: crimes are committed, and the protagonist has to figure out who's responsible! Isn't that the very essence of a mystery? Isn't that what my books do?"

"Mm hmm," Martha said, her eyes still stuck to her magazine. She made a mental note to thank Alexis for introducing her to the wonders of ear buds.

* * *

"Who's he to say what a 'real' mystery is, anyway? Who appointed him the king of literary genres? Who's he to say that what I write is any more or less of a 'mystery' than Dashiell Hammett or Tony Hillerman? Besides, so many of those Golden Age books are _so_ dated these days, and spend more time with their precious puzzle than minor details like characterization..."

"Please tell me we have a dead body," Ryan muttered to Esposito.

"We may have one. Right here. Real soon."

* * *

"Speaking of puzzles..." Castle barely paused for breath as he ducked under the crime scene tape. "... I dare anybody to try to figure out some of those so-called 'clues'! Who the hell is supposed to remember a couple of words in the middle of chapter eight? That's not a clue, that's a tease! And those set-ups! British manor houses, aristocracy, identical twins! He thinks _my_ books are unrealistic, he should reread some of his heroes once in a while..."

Detective Kate Beckett stopped and turned; Castle finally shut up at her glare. "Castle," she said with infinite patience, "we're about to enter a crime scene, and our witnesses are among the richest and most powerful people in the city. If you're going to go in there ranting like a maniac—"

"Right. Right. You're right. Head in the game." Castle took a deep breath. "I'm fine now. I'm calm. Let's go."

"Okay," Beckett said with only a hint of skepticism.

"Oh, and what about their treatment of the police; it's absolutely—" Beckett spun on her heel. "Right. Murder. Yes. Serious business. I'm fine."

The two entered the lobby of one of the ritziest new Park Avenue addresses available. "Metal detector?" Castle asked as they stepped through a veritable ocean of uniformed policemen being given orders by Esposito. "I assume this isn't a normal amenity for this building."

"Like I said, the richest and most powerful people in the city are here," Beckett said. "Extra security was put into place for this party, so we actually know that nobody's been in or out since the victim was last seen alive."

"Closed circle..." Castle said under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing."

One gut-dropping elevator ride brought Castle and Beckett to the penthouse level, dominated by a single hallway for a single dwelling. More uniformed officers, accompanied by crime scene techs, were scurrying about like ants. Beckett led Castle through the open front door into an oak paneled foyer, bedecked with antique shields and tasteful bronze, gently lit by a vintage Tiffany chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

"Wow," Castle breathed.

"There's another floor of this right above us," Beckett said, "not to mention the body."

"So who's our victim?"

"Nathan Stafford, co-founder of Stafford and Tate, an investment and brokerage firm."

"Never heard of it."

"Not surprised; from what I understand, your net worth is peanuts to them. Their clients invest seven figures minimum."

Castle raised his eyebrows. "Huh. Then I guess our suspects..."

"Are not happy, no. And they're not used to being not happy."

They entered onto a huge room, this one with a much more modern ambiance and decor. But it wasn't the furniture, mostly shoved against the walls to accommodate the twenty or so people milling about within it, that first caught Castle's attention. It was the Playboy Bunny.

And Napoleon.

And yes, that was Sherlock Holmes.

"Costume party?" Castle said under his breath.

Beckett nodded. "Everybody!" she shouted; the rumblings of conversation ceased, and Castle felt the gaze of dozens of eyes. "I'm Detective Kate Beckett..."

"How much longer are you going to keep us here?" a man's voice rang out from the back.

"We've been trapped here for hours!"

"I've already called my attorney..."

"Please!" The tumult mostly ceased, a testament to Beckett's sheer force of will. "I apologize for the inconvenience, but I'm sure you understand that we're dealing with a serious crime here. As soon as you've all been interviewed and processed, you'll be free to go—"

"Processed?" a woman's voice, middle aged, said; Castle thought it came from the Little Bo Peep next to the canapes.

"Yes, we'll need your permission to search your costumes and belongings for evidence—"

That tore it. Several voices yelled out all at once.

"... Outrageous!"

"... Treating us like criminals...!"

"... Have your badge..."

"... Refuse to dignify this fascism..."

"Quiet!" But it wasn't Beckett's voice; it was a man's, and not a cop, either. It issued from Dracula, and even more surprising, the voice was instantly obeyed. "A man is dead," Dracula continued, "and I think we all owe it to our host and the police if we all just do as Detective Beckett asks us. I'm sure they'll be very... discreet if necessary, as long as we cooperate and try not to make everybody's lives difficult. I, for one, would certainly appreciate it if I were in their shoes. Are we agreed?"

There were still a few grumblings among the guests, but the level of hostility had ratcheted down significantly.

Beckett nodded towards Dracula with a smile that was not a little smug. "Thank you, Governor." She turned to the rest of the assemblage. "All right, the men will go with that officer there, the women with Sergeant Collins there. We appreciate your cooperation, and we'll try to make this as quick and painless as possible." The mood was almost childlike in its sulkiness as the costumed revelers separated to follow their appointed officers.

As Castle and Beckett watched, Ryan approached them from another room. "The family and the vic's partner are upstairs in the billiard room."

"Billiard room..." Castle breathed for no apparent reason.

"Let's go." Beckett, with Castle right behind, followed Ryan up a wide oak staircase to the second floor, the hall brightly lit by brass wall sconces and peppered with a series of identical, thick oak doors on each side. Ryan opened the one closest to the stairs to the left, and led his colleague and his friend into... yes, it was indeed a billiard room, appointed with a luxurious table that struck Castle's eyes as likely custom crafted. One side of the room bore a trio of small tables and chairs in front of a fully stocked bar. At these tables sat a French nobleman, Little Red Riding Hood, Superman, Cleopatra, and a man in black wearing a tall top hat whose costume Castle couldn't quite place. The mood was predictably grim; these five were pale, shell shocked, with Cleopatra in tears.

"Ms. Stafford?" Beckett asked gently.

Cleopatra nodded; she was in her late thirties, and Castle could just make out some blonde hairs sticking out from underneath her black wig. "Y-yes, I'm Janine Stafford."

"I'm Detective Beckett. I'm very sorry about your father." She got a mute nod in reply. "And Ernie Stafford...?"

"Me," Superman said. He was in his early to mid thirties, with the same icy blue eyes as Janine Stafford. "I just can't believe... Who'd want to kill Dad...?"

"That's what we're here to find out, Mr. Stafford. Which one of you is Grant Tate?"

"I am," the man in black said.

"Mr. Stafford's partner?"

"Yes."

"And what are you dressed as?" Castle asked.

Tate, a broad shouldered dark haired man in his mid-sixties, flushed. "Jack the Ripper," he admitted.

There was a silence Castle would've described in one of his books as "ominous and heavy."

"So you are...?" Beckett asked, addressing a space directly in between the nobleman and Little Red Riding Hood.

"I'm Zachary Evans, Stafford and Tate vice president," the nobleman said in a hoarse voice. Castle couldn't tell much about his real face underneath the powder and tall wig, but he sounded like he was in his late thirties, lean like a scarecrow.

"I'm Iris Manning," Little Red Riding Hood said, "Mr. Stafford's personal secretary." She was an attractive young woman under the hood, her wide brown eyes red-rimmed.

"Secretary?" Castle asked. "Are Stafford and Tate employees usually invited to events like this?"

"Nathan always said that his money actually came from his staff," Tate said, "everyone down to the janitors. Several of the guests at this party are low to mid level brokers at the firm."

"I know this is a difficult time for everybody, but it's important that we ask a few questions." There were several blank, almost resigned nods to Beckett. Janine Stafford sniffled. "Mr. Tate, I understand you found the body?"

"Y-yes, with Zachary. It was around midnight. The party was starting to wind down a little, and we realized that neither of us had seen Nathan for a while. The first place we looked was Nathan's study, but the door was locked..."

"Locked room? Please tell me it was a locked—" Castle wasn't sure what choked off the words first: his own throat, or Beckett's elbow in his ribs.

"We went into the master bedroom," Tate continued. "The master bath connects it and the study." If anyone had been paying attention, they would've noticed Castle wilt in disappointment.

"Mr. Stafford had taken us on a tour when we first got here," Evans explained. "This was supposed to be a housewarming party; Mr. Stafford said they just finished moving everything in this morning." Janine and Ernie Stafford nodded mute confirmation.

"We went through the bathroom, and when we opened the door to the study, we saw..." Tate's face turned a distinct shade of green. "God, it was horrible... All that blood..." Janine whimpered into a cocktail napkin. "Oh, Janine, I'm so sorry..."

Now Evans took up the narrative. "We shut the door and came back out into the hall. Mr. Tate went to tell a few select people what had happened. I stayed behind guarding the bedroom door so no one else would go in and see..." He swallowed. "You know."

"I was the one who called the police," Iris Manning said. "At least, the first one. I'm sure you got a dozen 911 calls from downstairs after word spread about what happened."

"Had there been any threats made against Mr. Stafford?" Beckett asked. "Either personal or business?"

"No," Ernie said. "Dad isn't... He wasn't one of those one percenters everyone complains about. He worked his own way up out of a small town in Wyoming. He campaigned for Obama, he gave to charity... God, in some ways, he was practically a socialist!"

There was irony there, but Castle kept the observation to himself.

"And there was nothing in business that could've led to this," Tate said. "We're in a cutthroat field, yes, but we do everything above board and by the book. No, I don't think you'll find a motive there."

Zachary Evans stirred. Castle caught Beckett's eye; she gave him a little nod.

"I just can't... It seems impossible. Why would anyone here want to hurt Mr. Stafford?" Manning sobbed.

"Unless it was one of the staff..." Ernie said.

"We're checking them all out," Beckett replied.

"I doubt you'll find anything," Janine said. "I helped my dad planning this party. All of the party staff were hired last month just for tonight. We've been using them for events for years. Dad's regular in-house staff was going to move in tomorrow."

"So you and your brother don't live here?" Ryan asked.

"No, we have our own places. I'm divorced, and Ernie just got engaged, so neither of us needs a lot of space yet."

Beckett nodded. "All right, go downstairs and join the others for now. We'll follow up with all of you later." The morose group got up and shuffled out of the room.

"Scene of the crime?" Castle asked.

"Yep."

* * *

The door to the study was at the other end of the hall, standing ajar. They could hear the snaps of flashbulbs as they approached.

The study was a very large room lined with bookshelves, its carpet red and green, woven with an intricate Asian-style design. The far side of the wall to the left was interrupted by a door; this, obviously, was the connecting door to the bathroom already mentioned.

But most of the activity was centered around the near corner to the right. A large oak desk was set up parallel to the right hand wall. Behind this desk, in a large and luxurious leather chair, sat a man in his late sixties — or at least, the mortal remains of a man. His head was lolled back, his blonde-silver hair streaked with crimson. Castle's gorge rose at the ugly wounds evident all over the front of the man's skull; though he'd seen quite a few dead bodies in his line of work, some in even worse states than this one, the initial instinctive shock never got easier. Nathan Stafford was evidently dressed as Charlie Chaplin, indicated by the black suit, bowler hat on the desk, thin cane leaning against the wall, and the short brushy false mustache that hung askew from his upper lip. Next to the hat, on the otherwise clean and empty blotter, was a heavy looking statuette a little over a foot long — a Egyptian obelisk made of lovingly carved stone. It was covered in blood stains.

Lanie rose at their entrance, gently pressing past the crime scene photographers as they continued their grim work. "I think it's safe to say that cause of death is multiple blunt force trauma to the head," she said. "I put TOD at sometime between eleven pm and midnight."

Ryan flipped open his notebook. "That fits the timeline we have so far. The last confirmed sighting of Nathan Stafford was at about eleven o'clock. Several witnesses saw him go upstairs."

"And I assume...?" Castle gestured at the statuette.

"Its base sure looks like it fits the shape of his wounds to me. The lab will confirm."

Castle took a gentle step forward towards the desk. "When Tate mentioned blood, he sure wasn't kidding."

Lanie nodded. "Spatter's everywhere," she said, waving her arm at the clear patterns of castoff blood that covered the hat, the desk, the side of the nearby bookshelf, the walls in either direction within several feet of the body, the body itself. "This was a messy murder."

"Looks like a weapon of opportunity," Castle remarked, nodding at the obelisk. "Crime of passion? Heat of the moment?"

"Or maybe our killer knew he wouldn't get a weapon past security, and just had to improvise," Beckett mused.

"So our killer was probably standing... here?" Castle took up a position next to the chair just behind the desk, towards the corner of the room.

"Probably, judging from the directionality of the spatter," Lanie said. "Angle is about right."

"So the killer was someone Stafford let get close."

"Someone he knew," Beckett said with a nod. "Someone he trusted."

"Someone who betrayed that trust." Musing, Castle turned 180 degrees. Half a foot behind him on the wall was a mirror; its surface was unblemished, except perhaps for the grisly scene reflected in it.

Esposito joined them in the room. "I've talked to the catering company, the waitstaff, and the bar staff," he said. "They all alibi each other; nobody was out of sight of another staff member for more than a couple of minutes."

"So our killer's most likely a guest," Beckett said thoughtfully. "Someone who could slip away without being missed."

"This place is big enough that someone could do that easily," Ryan said. "The guests all say that they were scattered around the penthouse: first floor, second floor... There are two balconies too. They just had to wait for a moment when no one else was around."

"This is _it_! This is perfect!" The rest of the room turned to Richard Castle, whose look of delight immediately melted off his face. "Did I say that out loud?"

"Perfect for what?" Beckett asked, already dreading the answer.

"Well..." He coughed. "This is just like one of those Golden Age mysteries I was talking about. Wealthy man killed in the modern equivalent of a manor house, party full of suspects, closed circle that no one can get in or out of..." Some of the eagerness returned to his voice and features. "If I could figure out the killer using Golden Age methods of observation and deduction, I can prove to Andrew that I so _could_ write the kind of 'real' mysteries he likes! Only I just choose... not to!"

Beckett rolled her eyes. "Castle, when we catch this killer, it'll be with hard evidence and solid police work, not because you noticed someone is wearing a different tie."

"Why, was someone wearing a different tie?"

"No."

"Oh. But seriously, it'll be close enough to what we do anyway: you use your methods, and I'll use mine. Only this time, I'll approach it like... Hercule Poirot! I'll exercise my little grey cells." He tapped on his temple, saying those last words with a faux French-Belgian accent that would've provoked at least an amused smile had there not been a bloody corpse a foot away.

"Fine, do whatever you think you need to do," Beckett sighed. "We'll start by building a full timeline of movements based on witness interviews — figure out who had the opportunity to kill Stafford."

"I'll get started on background checks," said Esposito.

"I'll see if the canvas dug up anything," said Ryan.

"And I'll finish my examination of the crime scene." Castle frowned. "Anyone have a magnifying glass? The bigger the better."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Like I said, first time writing for this show, but the mystery story just would not let me go. Please be gentle with me!**

The white board at the precinct was already ready and waiting for another story of violent death. Already Nathan Stafford's photograph was pinned under that grimmest of words: VICTIM.

"Okay," Ryan said to his comrades, "we just finished putting together the timeline based on witness interviews. Most of the guests have at least two people vouching for them between eleven and midnight. But five people have at least half an hour during that time frame when no one else can verify their whereabouts."

"And they," Esposito said, "just happen to be the five people we talked to in the billiard room."

"Janine Stafford," Ryan began, pinning up her driver's license photo. "Age 39. Member of the Stafford and Tate board of directors. Divorced from her husband last year, no kids."

"Ernie Stafford," Esposito continued. "34, also a board member. According to Stafford's lawyer, the bulk of the estate is divided equally between him and his sister. The rest goes to charity."

"How much of an inheritance are we talking about here?" Castle asked, stroking his chin.

"Millions," Esposito said. "Easily worth killing for."

"And the brokerage firm?" Beckett asked. "Do the children get that too?"

"No, according to a preexisting agreement, that goes to Grant Tate." Ryan pinned up his photo. "64, married, two kids. He and Stafford met in college when they were runners on the floor of the stock exchange. They've been best friends and business partners ever since."

"Zachary Evans, age 40, was Stafford's right hand man, and is now Tate's. He's a financial boy wonder who worked all the way up from mailroom guy. Nothing for him in Stafford's will, and he's not getting a promotion, but we're still digging to see if he gets anything out of Stafford's death."

"Finally, Iris Manning. Age 34, secretary to Stafford for the past three years. Again, nothing in the will for her, and she might be out of a job now. We're still digging into her too."

"What about our victim?" Beckett asked. "Anything jump out?"

"Nathan Stafford," Esposito said, tapping the victim photo. "Age 65, self-made man from Wyoming, like his son said. Wife died two years ago of breast cancer. Nothing obvious we can see in his background or business so far."

"Except the will."

"And those," Castle mused, "are our suspects."

"According to Lanie," Beckett said, flipping open the autopsy folder, "cause of death was blunt force trauma from that obelisk." The obelisk, too, had its own photo on the white board. "Thing is heavy enough that it wouldn't take a lot of strength to cause damage. Prints wiped clean."

"Speaking of prints, most of the usable ones in the study belonged to the vic," Ryan said. "The entire penthouse was searched; they found nothing out of the ordinary. Unis canvased the rest of the building, the area surrounding the building, the garbage, even the rooftops of neighboring buildings. Nothing useful."

"According to the lab, no evidence of any kind was found on the clothing or possessions of any of the people there," Esposito chimed in.

"And security said nobody was in or out from the time the party started to the time we arrived," Beckett said thoughtfully.

"Well, then," Castle said, "that leaves us with a very interesting question, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does," Beckett answered with a short nod. "If we answer that question... I have a hunch we'll have our killer." She turned to Castle. "So how about it?" she asked with a tinge of lighthearted teasing. "Any inspiration from our armchair detective?"

"Not yet. Give the little grey cells some time."

Captain Gates approached the quartet. "How are we doing on the Stafford case?"

"We're making progress," Beckett replied.

Gates shook her head. "I don't think I have to tell you that everyone is in my face about this," she said, "from City Hall to the press. Wall Street's already taken a hit, and there are a lot of very powerful people interested in seeing what happens. Find me a killer, and fast."

"We're on it." Beckett turned back to the rest of the team. "Ryan, the court order for Stafford's phone records and financials should be in any minute. Follow up on those. Esposito, go to the firm and see if any of the employees know anything. Ernie Stafford will be coming in soon; Castle and I will talk to him."

Out of his Superman costume, Ernie Stafford looked much more mortal. In fact, it looked like he'd shrunken at least an inch and 50 pounds. There were still traces of black hair dye in his blonde hair, hair that his fingers ran through nervously.

"Well," he began, "I last saw my dad about eleven. I ran into him in the hall outside his study. We talked for a little while."

"About what?" Beckett asked.

"Business. I had an idea I wanted to run by him for Monday's trading."

"How long did you two talk?"

"I don't know, a couple of minutes? After that, he went into his study. I heard him lock the door behind him."

"Do you know why he was locking himself away during his own party?" Castle asked.

"He said he had some things to think about."

"Was he any more specific?"

"Could've been anything. A lot of things."

"What did you do after that?"

"Wandered, I guess. I had a couple of drinks downstairs, then I went to the upstairs balcony for a while."

"Did anyone see you there?" Beckett asked.

"There were a few people there... A couple, I think they were a knight and princess, and one guy I remember dressed as Pennywise the Clown, but I couldn't see who he was under the makeup. I was out there until Uncle Grant came to tell me what happened."

"Uncle Grant?"

"Yeah. He's been Uncle Grant to me and my sister ever since we were kids. Anyway, I'm sure the other people who were on the balcony can tell you I was there..."

"We asked them," Beckett replied. "They remember seeing you, but they can't be sure when, or how long you stayed."

"Of course not," Ernie snorted, a bitter, cynical tone creeping into his voice. "Typical. Nobody ever pays attention to me."

Castle cut in. "So was this party your first visit to the new penthouse?"

"Yeah. It was for all of us, really. Dad oversaw the decorating, of course, but he still lived at our old brownstone until it was all completed." The man's face darkened. "He said it had too many memories. Of Mom, I mean."

"Besides him having to think about something, did he strike you as acting unusual in any way?"

"I don't think so."

"Mr. Stafford, we have photographs of the crime scene." Beckett pushed a manila folder forward on the table. "If you could take a look, let us know if anything's out of the ordinary—"

"No!" He pushed the folder back towards Beckett.

"I know this is upsetting—"

"Do you?" Now white as a sheet, Ernie Stafford shook his head. "I can't look at those. I can't see my dad... like that." He shook his head again, this time more violently. "I can't. I'm sorry."

"I understand." Beckett withdrew the folder. "Then do you know of anyone who'd want to harm your father?"

"No. I couldn't last night, and I can't now." He frowned. "Unless..."

Beckett immediately leaned forward over the table. "Unless...?"

"Holy mother of...! That would make sense! God, I knew she was only after his money..."

"Mr. Stafford, who are you talking about?"

Ernie Stafford looked Beckett and Castle in the eyes in turn. "Please, you have to keep this out of the press. My dad is dead; he doesn't deserve to have his name dragged through the mud..."

"We'll do our best. Now who did you just think of?"

"Look... Ever since Mom died, Dad's been... Well, he was lonely. And when a man who was married as long as he has loses his wife... If someone... close to him... y'know, seduced him... And if he finally came to his senses..."

"For the last time, Mr. Stafford, I want a name!"

* * *

"Me? And Mr. Stafford?" Iris Manning sounded shocked — only to Castle's ears, it was the kind of shock people express when they walk into a surprise party they already knew about. "That's ridiculous!"

"Detective Esposito's already talked to your coworkers," Beckett said flatly.

"Yes," Castle chimed in. "Seems your affair was the hot topic at the water cooler."

"And I'm sure taking a look at Nathan Stafford's credit card bills and comparing them to your own will make for interesting reading..."

Manning turned red, crossing her arms over her chest petulantly. "Okay, fine. Yes, we were... in love."

"When did it start?"

"About a year and a half ago." She pushed a lock of black hair out of her eyes. "Look, no one else has to know about this, right?"

"He was your boss," Castle observed. "And twice your age."

"I know, I never thought anything like this would ever happen to me either! But Mr. Staff— Nathan was so... so _sweet_ and smart and... He was... so lonely..." She trailed off for a moment, a faraway look in her eyes, seeing... What? What kind of memories? "We spent so much time together, and he already trusted me with so much in his life, things just... happened. Guys my age, they only want one thing. Nathan... He valued me for _me_ , you know?"

"And how was your... relationship?" Beckett asked.

"Fine. We were fine." Her eyes widened. "You don't think...?"

"Sex. Jealousy. Heartbreak," Castle said. "Some of the oldest motives for murder are about love."

"I didn't kill him," Manning snapped. "I love... Loved him. I didn't want any of his gifts or his money, I just wanted..." She sniffed, reaching into her purse for a tissue.

Beckett waited until she was done wiping her eyes before asking, "Where were you between eleven and midnight?"

"Most of that time, I was in the guest bedroom on the west side of the penthouse. I got a headache, so I took some ibuprofen and asked Ms. Stafford — Janine — if I could borrow the bedroom so I could just rest for a little while. I was there until I found out about Nathan."

"Nobody came to check on you during that time?"

"No."

"When was the last time you saw Nathan Stafford?"

"Past eleven. Around a quarter past, I think? That's when I got the ibuprofen from the master bathroom. I saw that someone was in the study, and I went to see who it was."

"Did he seem normal to you?" Castle asked.

"A little distracted, but otherwise, yes. I didn't talk to him very long. He just asked me if I was feeling better."

"Ms. Manning, we could really use your help." Beckett had the folder in her hands. "We have some crime scene photos, and we'd really appreciate it if you could take a look and tell us if there's anything you see there that strikes you as odd or different from the last time you saw it."

Manning paled. "Do... do I have to?"

"We'd really appreciate it," Castle said gently. "If you can."

She closed her eyes for a moment. "If it'll help catch Nathan's killer... Then okay."

Beckett opened the folder. The photos within it showed the scene identically to the way Castle and Beckett saw it when they first entered the study early that morning. Manning's face paled even further, but her eyes were glued to the photos, as if in sick fascination. After long minutes of studying, she shook her head. "No... No, I don't think I see anything strange..."

"Okay." Beckett closed the folder again. "Can you think of anyone who'd want to harm Nathan Stafford?"

"N-no."

The rest of the interview passed without notable incident. "What do you think?" Castle asked after Iris Manning left the room.

"I don't know... She _seems_ sincere, but..." Beckett shook her head. "I want to take another look at the crime scene. Want to come..." Her lips twisted in a smirk. "Sam Spade?"

Castle tipped an imaginary fedora towards her. "Of course, schweetheart."

"Your Bogart could use a lot of work."

"Oh, and Sam Spade isn't part of what most would typically be called the Golden Age of mysteries. Hardboiled private investigator noir is a completely different animal..."

"Later, Castle."

* * *

The moment the express elevator opened at the penthouse suite level, Beckett froze.

"What?" Castle asked.

"Something's not right," she said in a low voice.

Castle glanced out into the hall before stepping out of the elevator. It seemed perfectly normal: well-lit, empty, with a uniformed officer guarding the door. "What?"

"I don't know. Call it instinct."

She approached the young officer at the door. He went chalk white at the sight of her, so quickly that Castle immediately roused to attention. "Detective! I... Uh..."

"Anything to... report, Officer Harrison?" Beckett asked in a wire-taut voice.

"I, um..."

"Now, Harrison."

"I... M-Ms. Stafford just went in."

"Janine Stafford?" The officer nodded weakly as Beckett's jaw dropped in disbelief. "You let a suspect in a murder investigation into an active crime scene?!"

"She threatened to call the commissioner!" he wailed. "She had him _on the phone_! Everybody knows how connected her family is! She just wanted to get some of her belongings..."

"She doesn't _live_ here!" Beckett almost shouted. It took only a second of deep breathing to get herself under control. "I'll deal with you later," she growled at the officer, who looked ready to wet his pants. She charged into the penthouse, Castle right behind.

The flotsam and jetsam of the previous night's party now seemed tragic and pathetic in the cloudy morning light. Beckett's fingers brushed her service weapon; Castle raised an eyebrow, but kept quiet. He followed, though keeping a respectable distance behind her. The place was silent. Nothing in any of the first floor rooms, nor on the first floor balcony.

That left the second floor, which included the study.

Laying her shoes down gently upon each step and testing it with her weight first, Beckett climbed the stairs, Castle following suit. There were few windows in the second floor hallway, casting it into ominous gloom and shadow.

Beckett looked left, then right. She cocked her head towards the latter direction, and Castle saw it: a streak of light coming from underneath the study door. Beckett snapped off the strap on her holster and looked back at Castle, cocking her head. He got the message and pressed himself against the wall. Probably not necessary, but it wasn't like they didn't both know how bad unexpected situations could become.

Beckett shoved open the door. From his vantage point, Castle could see Janine Stafford hunched over the desk at which her father had died, rummaging through one of the drawers. Her head jerked up at the interruption; Beckett had her hands ready to draw her firearm.

"Ms. Stafford," she said dryly. "I don't think you're supposed to be here."


	4. Chapter 4

A quick search of Janine Stafford revealed nothing. Only when that was done was she allowed to sit in a chair in the billiard room.

"I know how this looks..." she began.

"Then you know how bad this is for you," Castle said.

"Yes, I know, it was stupid, but I didn't kill my dad. You have to believe me..."

"You haven't given us any reason to," Beckett said. "What were you doing here? What was so important that you had to break a police seal?"

Janine Stafford's eyes shifted from left to right and back, at least twice. "I... I had to know," she finally said. "I had to. If I had to spend one more night not knowing, I thought I'd go insane..."

"Know about what?"

Stafford exhaled. "I got divorced last year. Do you know why?"

"No, why?"

"My husband was cheating on me. I got photos, anonymously, in the mail. I never found out who sent them, but you know who I always suspected?"

"Your father?" Castle guessed.

She nodded. "He always thought he was doing what was best," she said cynically. "No 'road to hell is paved with good intentions' for Nathan Stafford, oh no! He'd do whatever it took to rescue people from their own mistakes, because he was 'just trying to help'!" She wiped at her eyes with trembling fingers. "The photos were professional. My dad always denied that it was him, but who the hell else could it have been? I had to know," she repeated. "I had to know if Dad took Allen away from me and meddled in my life yet again..."

"So you were looking for evidence that he hired a private detective to follow your husband and catch him cheating?" Castle said.

"Maybe he tricked Allen into cheating! I don't know! That's the whole problem! I wasn't thinking!" Janine Stafford burst out, stating the obvious. "I've been obsessing with this ever since the divorce was final. My therapist kept telling me to let it go, and I know he's right, but I couldn't help it..." She buried her face in her hands, the rest of her words dissolving into nothingness. Beckett and Castle waited, with varying degrees of patience, until her face lifted once more.

"Since we have you here," Beckett said with more than an edge to her voice, "you can tell us where you were between eleven pm and midnight on the night of the party."

"Everywhere," she said. "The dining room, the parlor, the kitchen, upstairs... I don't think I stayed put anywhere more than ten minutes."

"It wasn't your party," Castle observed. "Are you always like that?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Janine Stafford said stiffly. "I'm a bit of a control freak, I admit. Besides, like I told you, I was helping my dad with this party. I wanted to make sure everything was going smoothly."

"But that also means," Beckett pointed out, "that you don't have much of an alibi. You were in and out so much that it's impossible to put together a steady timeline of your movements."

"And I made things worse for myself by coming here," Stafford finished. She heaved a deep sigh. "My dad and I had our... differences, and he could be a controlling bastard himself sometimes, but I didn't kill him. I didn't need his money, and despite everything, I did love him."

"Then do you have any ideas on who did kill him?"

Stafford shook her head. "None."

"Ms. Stafford," Castle cut in, "was last night the first time you've been to this penthouse?"

"Yes. It's the first time any of us had been here, except my dad, and he only poked his head in once in a while to check on its progress."

"Up to last night, who'd been here?"

"Just decorators and movers. Oh, and cleaning staff; they gave this place a thorough cleaning from top to bottom the day of the party. Everyone who worked at the firm came here directly from the office after closing. Why?"

Beckett was asking the same thing with her eyes. Castle shrugged. "Might be important. When was the last time you saw your father alive?"

"About ten past eleven. I went to his study. To... you know... _look_. But he was there, behind his desk; I didn't expect him to be. So I just pretended I was looking for him to ask him a question about the dessert tray. We didn't talk for long — just a minute or two — and I left."

"Then maybe you can help us, and do yourself some good." Beckett held out a hand, and Castle handed her a folder. "These are photos from the crime scene. If you can, I'd like you to look at them and tell me if you notice anything unusual."

"I'll try." She shuddered upon seeing the gruesome photos. Almost immediately, she frowned.

"What?" Beckett asked.

"That... that statue..." Her finger tapped on a still image of the bloody obelisk on the desk. "I don't remember seeing that when I talked to Dad last night."

"Could it have been elsewhere in the room then?" Castle asked.

"I suppose, but if so, why would Dad have moved it so suddenly?" It was a good question. "Besides, I think I would've remembered if he owned something Egyptian; I'm interested in its art because of— Oh!"

Beckett's spine straightened. "What is it, Ms. Stafford?"

"U-Uncle Grant. He just came back from a vacation in Cairo. He's the only person I know who's been there lately."

Beckett nodded slowly. "We'll follow up on that. Thank you, Ms. Stafford." Automatically, Janine Stafford rose as Beckett gathered up the photos. "No, sit down. You still have your actions today to answer for."

"I... I know. Do you mind if I call my lawyer?"

"Not at all."

* * *

"CSU did a quick sweep of the penthouse," Esposito said later at the precinct. "As far as they can tell, Janine Stafford didn't do anything to the crime scene or the rest of the penthouse. Nothing missing or altered."

"She wouldn't have been able to dispose of anything anyway," Beckett mused. "Not with how quickly we found her. And her lawyer's already bailed her out. Knowing that family and their influence, the charges we have against her probably won't stick. Not unless she killed her father."

"Speaking of the crime scene..." Castle muttered, "I've been looking at some of these photos, and... You see the bloodstain on Nathan Stafford's right index finger?"

Beckett looked over his shoulder. "Yeah, I noticed that. Too much to just be spatter from the attack..."

"Right. And didn't the autopsy report say Stafford could've survived the blows to the head?"

"Could have. He definitely wouldn't take long to die from them even if he did."

"Then I wonder..." Castle began flipping through the crime scene photos, specifically the close-ups of the desk. "If this were a Golden Age mystery, this would be the perfect setup for... Aha!" He plucked out one of the photos and waved it triumphantly in the police detectives' faces. "A dying message clue, right out of Ellery Queen!"

All three leaned towards the photo. Indeed, painted onto the surface of Stafford's desk, near the edge, were two parallel lines in blood. "Hm, I see," Beckett said. "You can just make out fingerprints in those... I'll bet they'll match Stafford's... How did I not see that before?"

"There was a lot of blood there," Castle said with a shrug. "It just sort of blended in."

Beckett shook her head. "Yeah, but that assumes that this is a dying message to begin with. Even if it is, what does it _mean_?"

"Good question." Castle flipped the photo back to face him. "Could be an eleven. Or a Roman numeral two. Ernie Stafford, the second child?"

"But you're assuming that Stafford meant to draw them at that angle," Ryan pointed out, taking the photo from Castle and turning it 90 degrees. "Now it's an equal sign."

"Equal sign..." Castle mused. "Grant Tate is Stafford's equal in the firm..."

"Or it could be a double slash," Esposito said, tilting the photograph slightly. "Maybe he was gonna write a Web address or something?"

"This is all speculation," Beckett said. "And weak speculation at that. So why don't we concentrate on what's right in front of us right now?" She tapped her chin in thought as she stared at the main crime scene photos posted on the whiteboard, at the desk and walls around it, practically sprayed with the victim's blood as if by a lawn sprinkler. "Like that one big nagging question... Any ideas on that one, Castle?"

"Not yet, but I'm working on it." He hopped off the desk he'd been sitting on. "We still have two more suspects to interview. Want to split up?"

"Sure. I'll take Grant Tate."

"Perfect. That leaves me with our most likely suspect."

"Zachary Evans? How's he our most likely suspect?" Esposito asked.

"Because he's the _least_ likely suspect," Castle replied. "As the only one with no apparent motive. It's never the most likely suspect in Golden Age mysteries."

Ryan's brow furrowed. "Yeah, but... Once you know that... If him being least likely makes him the most likely... Doesn't that make him the least likely again? And circle him back to being most likely? Over and over again?"

" _Exactly_!" Castle crowed. Esposito and Beckett exchanged puzzled looks.

"Okay, then," the latter said. "After we're done, let's meet back at the penthouse. I want to take a closer look at your 'dying message.'"

"Ah!" Castle said, puffing out his chest. "This is a good day to solve a murder! I feel it, Beckett: we're close!"

"I hope you're right. This case is starting to get to me."

* * *

Grant Tate sighed, leaning back in his his plush office chair. "Yes, Detective, I did give Nathan that obelisk. The night of the party, in fact, not long before we..." He shook his head slowly.

"You didn't mention this last night," Beckett said pointedly. "You had to recognize it when you saw it."

"I did, but... I suppose I was hoping no one would notice it was new. Stupid of me, I guess."

"Yes, it was. It makes me wonder if you have anything more to hide."

"I know my word isn't worth much, Detective, not in a murder investigation, but there isn't anything else. Nathan and I were friends for decades. I have no reason to kill him."

"Not even for sole control of this firm?"

"I don't need it. I'm living comfortably enough, and so is my family. I was satisfied with what I had."

"So you say."

* * *

"No, nothing will really change for me," Zachary Evans told Castle as the latter followed the former into the high priced steakhouse where a business lunch was about to take place. "I always worked directly under both Mr. Stafford and Mr. Tate. I just have..." He skidded to a stop. "I just have one fewer boss now," he said quietly. He rubbed sweat off his upper lip as he sat at a large table. No one else was there yet, so Castle sat next to him.

"No ambitions for a higher pay grade?" Castle asked.

Evans smiled tightly. "If I did, I would've asked for it a long time ago, and gotten it. Or I would've struck out on my own already. But I like Stafford and Tate. It's my home. It gave me my start, and I'll always be grateful to it for that — and to Mr. Stafford and Mr. Tate for giving me a chance."

"So when was the last time you saw Nathan Stafford alive?"

"Actually, it's kind of funny..." Evans grimaced. "No, not funny, that's the wrong word for it. You see, Mr. Tate and I were the first people to find him dead, but we may have also been the last people to see him alive too."

* * *

"Zachary and I were playing pool in the billiard room," Tate said, idly toying with an expensive fountain pen as he spoke. "Until about twenty minutes past eleven. We went together to Nathan's study to see if he wanted to play a round with us. He didn't, but he promised he'd join us later. That's why we went looking for him at midnight."

"And that's when you gave him the obelisk?" Beckett asked.

"Yes. It was a housewarming gift. He seemed to like it. Said it would make a nice decoration for his desk. And he was right; there was nothing else on it except for a lamp and a blotter." He smiled, a fond and sad smile. "Nathan was never one for hoarding possessions like a packrat."

"How long did you three talk?"

* * *

"Five minutes, maybe? Not more than ten. After that, I went downstairs to get a drink, then I went out to the first floor balcony to get some fresh air. I took a look at the pool and admired the view."

"Can anyone vouch for that?" Castle asked.

Evans shook his head. "Probably not. It's a big balcony, and people were going in and out that entire half hour."

* * *

"I stayed upstairs, in the billiard room. I practiced a couple of shots, then had a drink. I was there until Zachary returned a little before midnight."

"And you were alone that entire time?"

"Yes. There was no bartender there, so I fixed my own drink."

"Can you think of any reason anyone would want to harm Nathan Stafford?"

"None at all."

* * *

"I noticed when we first met that you seemed to want to say something when Mr. Tate said that there was no business related reason to kill Mr. Stafford," Castle said. "Mind telling me what you were thinking?"

Evans hesitated. He looked around for a moment to make sure no one was paying attention; Castle's curiosity piqued. Finally, he leaned over the table towards Castle and spoke in a harsh half-whisper. "Okay, I'm not supposed to know this, but I have a... contact at the SEC. They're gearing up to open an investigation on Stafford and Tate employees. They think someone there is engaging in insider trading."

Castle raised his eyebrows. "But they don't know who?"

"No. Whoever it is covered their tracks pretty well. But the patterns, the connections... Whatever they've got, it's too strong to ignore."

"Who else knew about this?"

"Only Mr. Stafford. I told him what I'd heard last week. He promised he wouldn't tell anyone else; my contact could get into major trouble if anyone knew he'd so much as hinted..."

"So you think that's what he was thinking about the night of the party?"

"Maybe. It's a strong possibility, anyway."

"Any guesses who's responsible?"

"No idea."

* * *

"Oh, and Detective Beckett..."

"Yes?"

"Please don't be too hard on Janine. I've known her all her life, and what she did... It wasn't like her."

"So you don't think she killed her father?"

"Of course not!"

"What about the others?"

Grant Tate rubbed his eyes. "Honestly, I can't imagine any of them doing something like this. Ernie's always been a good kid. Zachary's a fine young man himself. And Iris... She has a job at Stafford and Tate as long as she wants it. That's how highly I think of her."

"Despite her affair with your best friend?"

Tate winced. "I thought it was stupid, frankly, for the lawsuit potential alone, but Nathan was a grown man. Besides, I actually saw a little bit of the old Nathan the past year — the one I knew before Rita died."

Beckett rose. "Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Tate."

* * *

"No problem." Evans looked hesitantly over Castle's shoulder. He followed the gaze; a group in business attire, a few of whom seemed familiar from the party, had just entered. "Uh, if there's nothing else?"

"No, nothing, for now. Thank you, Mr. Evans." Castle left the restaurant deep in thought. He remained deep in thought the entire cab ride to the fatal penthouse, deep enough to not notice the greeting from the uniformed officer stationed in the lobby. He only returned to the real world when he met Kate Beckett in the second floor hall.

"Okay," she began, "let's go through the killer's movements. Since the door to the study was locked on the inside, he would've had to come in from the master bedroom."

"Right." The two stepped into it, a luxuriously appointed room decorated in rich browns and tans. "The killer would've had to know that he was working on a short time frame. He could've locked the door to the master bedroom, but there was no guarantee someone wouldn't have noticed. That may mean premeditation. Kind of risky, regardless, killing him in the middle of a crowded party, not knowing who could show up looking for their host."

"Which is why I like your insider trading motive," Beckett said, pacing the perimeter of the room. "The killer could've discovered at the party that Stafford was closing in on him, and knew he had to act fast."

"Any of our suspects in deep debt, or need cash in a hurry?"

"Not that we've discovered yet, but if there's one thing I know about Wall Street, it's that once you get a taste of the good life, it's easy to want more."

Castle idly opened a drawer. It was empty. So were the others, and the closet. "Huh. Looks like Stafford wasn't fully moved in yet."

"Let's move on. The killer goes through the master bathroom..." This room was covered in marble, with gold plated fixtures and a shower that Castle usually saw only in fancy spas. Castle opened up a wicker hamper, and lifted out a damp bath towel, peeking underneath it. There was nothing else inside. He then went to the medicine cabinet; it was fully stocked with everything from ibuprofen to Q-tips. "And then to the study."

Castle and Beckett paused in the doorway. The study desk was in direct line of sight. "There's no way someone could've crossed the room without Stafford noticing."

"Right. Which supports that the killer is someone Stafford trusted."

"Anyone else enter the study, or the master bedroom or bath?"

"Just our five suspects."

They went over to the desk; on its surface, near the bloodstained office chair, were the two parallel lines, painted onto the desk in blood. "Fingerprint match Stafford?" Castle asked as he leaned in closely towards them.

"Yep. Although that still doesn't prove that Stafford made them. The killer could've done it to throw us off the track."

"If that were the case, he probably would've done something more transparent than this. He would've tried to directly and unmistakably implicate one of the other suspects." Castle tilted his head this way and that. "Still not seeing anything."

"Could be there's nothing to see," Beckett pointed out. "Who knows why Stafford made those lines? You know as well as I do that life doesn't fit neatly into place like books do."

"Yes, I know, I know. But there's something there. I know it. Maybe Stafford was trying to draw an arrow? But if so, which way did he want it to point...?"

"I think you should give up on those lines, Castle. You're still overthinking it. There's no way Stafford could've had any of that in mind, not after several blows to the head."

"You're right," Castle said, frowning. "That's the problem with dying message clues. Normal people can't think about roundabout symbolism or complex messages while they're dying. All they'd want to do is..." Castle almost gasped, his back straightening. "All they'd want to do is..."

"Castle?"

"Just a second, let me... But is there any...? Of _course_!" He slammed his right fist into his left palm. "The little grey cells..." he said smugly, turning to Beckett, "have done excellent work today."

"And I'm sure you're dying to explain," Beckett said with a wry smile.

"That I am."

And he did explain. It took several minutes, and several back and forths with Beckett over points here and there, but by the end of it, Beckett was nodding her head.

"I think..."

"Yes?" Castle asked eagerly.

"I think you're onto something." Castle did a fist pump. "But you realize that none of this is actual evidence that'll stand up in court."

Castle deflated. "Yes, well... Usually writers get around that with some kind of clever trick or confession..."

"Like I said before, Castle, we're going to catch this killer with solid police work. If you're right, there's one place we can start looking for evidence right now." She took out her phone. "I'm calling CSU to take a closer look. They didn't have much reason to examine it closely before, but maybe they can still find something. I'll also get Ryan and Esposito started on warrants..."

"You know," Castle said as she held her phone to her ear, "if this were a mystery novel, this is the point where I'd turn to the reader and challenge them to solve the mystery. I'd tell them they have all the clues, and they can try to piece it together just like I did. Maybe I'd mention that the key was indeed that big unanswered question that we all saw earlier..."

"Castle? There's nobody here but us."

"Right. Sorry."


	5. Chapter 5

Beckett hung up the phone. "We got it. Ryan and Esposito are moving in."

"Then we can make an arrest?" Castle asked.

Beckett nodded. "I'll see where we can find our killer..." One additional phone call later, she had a small grin on her face. "It seems that all five of our suspects are at the offices of Stafford and Tate, in a board meeting. Wanna come?"

Castle perked. "Summation? I get to do a summation?!"

"Consider it an early birthday present."

Castle squealed like a little child.

* * *

They could barely hear a voice through the thick wooden doors just as they opened. "Of course, while we mourn Nathan, we can't afford to sit still while we do so. Nathan would've wanted—" Grant Tate stopped short when he saw who was standing in the now open boardroom doors. "I... Let's take a break. We'll pick up again in half an hour." The gathered group around the table, about fifteen strong, looked at Castle and Beckett, then at each other, and silently got up to leave. Only five people remained seated, the five people Castle had already met, as if held there by some unspoken instinct. They waited, in silence, as the rest of the board shuffled out of the room. Castle closed the doors behind the last to exit, but he had a feeling that there'd be someone listening in, if only to satisfy the usual thirst for office gossip.

God knew that this would be one of the biggest moments for gossip in the company's history.

He turned back to the room, to the five tight and somber faces. "So you know why we're here."

"I think that's obvious." Tate nodded at the uniformed officer who'd accompanied them in. "You're here to arrest one of us for Nathan's murder, aren't you?"

"Yes," Beckett said flatly.

Grant Tate, sitting at the head of the table, was the most neutral, merely looking expectantly at Castle and Beckett. Sitting to his right was Zachary Evans, who was mopping sweat off his brow with a handkerchief. To Tate's left was Iris Manning; she closed a notebook that was laying on the table in front of her, but said nothing. To her left was Janine Stafford, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she stared across the table at her brother, Ernie, who drummed his fingers on the table in a nervous rhythm.

Otherwise the scene was frozen — so perfectly still it could've been an oil painting. The air was electric with tension.

"I'm going to let Mr. Castle explain," Beckett said, standing aside. Castle managed to keep the grin off his face as he stepped forward, maintaining a properly somber expression.

"The key," he said, "to Nathan Stafford's death came down to a simple question. Most of you have seen the crime scene, either in pictures or in person." Janine Stafford's lower lip trembled. "You know that the murder was... quite brutal."

"Yes, my sister told me," Ernie said impatiently. "Get to the goddamn point already!"

"The murder weapon was only about a foot long, so the killer had to have been standing close to the body. There was blood spatter all around the scene, except on a nearby mirror, behind where the killer was standing. That confirms what common sense tells us: that the killer must've gotten Nathan Stafford's blood all over them while committing the murder.

"Yet all of you were thoroughly examined, your clothes searched for evidence, which obviously includes blood... And nothing was found on any one of you. How is that possible?"

Confused looks were exchanged around the table. "The... killer might've worn something over his costume?" Zachary Evans suggested. "Like a raincoat or a tarp?"

"And how would that have looked to Nathan Stafford?" Castle asked. "He let his killer approach him from across the room; a raincoat or tarp would've struck him as very suspicious, considering none of you were wearing costumes that would've needed them. Besides, the police searched the penthouse, the rest of the building, the surrounding areas, the garbage... They found nothing out of the ordinary, and a bloodstained coat or tarp would've been on the top of that list."

"Then it's impossible!" Tate burst out. "I saw Nathan! You're right — there's no way the murderer could've avoided all that blood!"

"Oh, but it is possible, Mr. Tate, and the way in which it was possible tells us the who." He began slowly circling the table; the five assembled suspects watched him silently, their eyes locked on him in sick fascination. "Let's start at the beginning. The party was obviously a risky place to commit this murder; any one of the guests or staff could've interrupted the killer at any time, and killing him out on the street, say in a fake robbery, would've been much safer. That means that this crime wasn't planned in advance. My guess is that the killer discovered at the party that Nathan Stafford was getting close, and therefore needed to act fast."

"Getting close?" Iris Manning repeated. "Getting close about what?"

"Insider trading." Only Zachary Evans's face displayed no shock, whether genuine or acted. "He had reason to believe that someone in this firm was taking advantage of confidential information to make money on the stock market. He almost certainly didn't know who yet, but the killer knew that it was only a matter of time before they were exposed. They had to buy time to avoid detection — and killing Nathan Stafford, the man with the most reason to work hardest to expose them, was the best way."

"Then it couldn't have been me," Janine said. "My brother and I don't need to take that kind of risk to make money."

"Not for money, no. But what if someone wanted get back at, say, a controlling and underappreciative father?"

Ernie half rose in his chair. "Are you accusing us of—"

"Sit down, Mr. Stafford," Beckett said coldly. Ernie Stafford sank back into his seat.

"So the killer got wind of Stafford's knowledge at the party," Castle continued, "and knew they had to strike quickly. Again, these weren't ideal conditions, but time must've been of the essence. And I have to admit, they thought of a very clever way to murder Stafford and reduce the risk of getting caught with incriminating evidence. And that's where the problem of the blood comes in."

"Then how'd they do it?" Grant Tate asked. "I told you, I saw what happened to Nathan! There's no way the killer could've not gotten blood on his clothes!"

"Ah! There it is!" Castle cried, pointing a finger. "You're right. There's no way the killer could've avoided getting blood on their clothes. So remove clothes from the equation."

"Remove...?" Zachary Evans frowned in confusion. "You mean...?"

"That's right. The killer committed the murder... _naked_." There was dead silence. "Here's what I think happened: the killer entered the master bedroom sometime shortly after 11:30. They locked the door, went through the master bathroom into the study, and killed Stafford, stripping off their costume sometime in between. I'm not sure what weapon they'd been planning to use, but the obelisk on his desk was a convenient tool. Then they went back into the bathroom, stepped into the shower, and washed off the blood. They put their costume back on and returned to the party, waiting for Stafford's body to be discovered. Voila: bloody murder committed without a spot of blood on them."

"Mr. Castle found a damp towel in the hamper in the master bathroom," Beckett said. "Which is odd, since none of you admitted to using one so heavily, and Nathan Stafford didn't even have clothes in the penthouse."

"But... but this is ridiculous!" Grant Tate sputtered. "According to you, the killer either approached Nathan nude, or stripped while in sight of him! Why on Earth would he have remained sitting at that desk while a naked person, even someone he knew—" His voice choked off, immediately turning towards someone else in the room.

"Indeed," Castle said mildly. "Who could've approached Nathan Stafford while nude without arousing suspicion?" Janine Stafford was the next to figure it out, her eyes turning cold with anger and hate. Ernie Stafford followed her gaze. "For whom would such a state not only not have been unusual... but actually welcome?" Zachary Evans was the last to catch on.

Iris Manning appeared to feel all the eyes on her. "Me?" she squeaked.

"You, Ms. Manning," Castle said grimly. "As Nathan Stafford's mistress as well as his secretary, you were ideally placed to gather the information you needed to make a lot of money. As Stafford's mistress, you had his trust, and you would've easily been able to get close to him without a stitch of clothing on. And you knew that Stafford cared about his company and his people, so much that he would've turned you in to the SEC to face federal prison without hesitation once he discovered the truth." He stopped behind the pale young woman's chair. "You slipped, Ms. Manning. When you saw the crime scene photos, you said you didn't see anything unusual. Yet Janine Stafford immediately saw something unusual: the murder weapon itself. It had only been given to Nathan Stafford around 11:20, after you claimed to have seen him last. It was alone on that desk; like Janine Stafford, you had to have remembered it wasn't there before. Yet your eyes passed over it, because you'd already seen it — right before you committed the murder."

"I..."

"Then there's the fact that Nathan Stafford himself accused you."

Iris Manning turned to Castle, staring at him in bewilderment. "What...?"

"He left a dying message, written on the desk in his own blood." Castle snatched up her notebook and opened it, using her pen to draw two thick parallel lines. He turned the notebook around, showing it to the others. "You left him for dead, but he still had a spark of life left in him. And with that last spark, he attempted to accuse you as his killer."

"But... what does it mean?" Zachary Evans squinted at the notebook. "Is it an eleven? Or an equals sign, maybe...?"

"That's where I went wrong at the beginning," Castle said. "The problem with dying message clues is that a dying person doesn't have the time or strength to think of codes or roundabout symbolism. Most people in that state would only have one thing in mind: name their killer as directly as possible. Therefore, this had to lead to the name of one of you." He turned the notebook so the lines were horizontal. "The start of E for Ernie, perhaps?" Ernie Stafford paled. "Probably not; most people don't write capital E's that way." He turned the notebook again so the lines were vertical. "But what if Stafford died before he could complete what he wanted to write? What if..." He took up the pen again. "What if that second line was the start of another letter, but he died before he finished more than the downstroke?" Finished, he showed off the notebook once more: instead of two parallel lines, the paper now bore what clearly looked like two letters. "IR. As in the beginning of the name Iris."

A heavy silence descended upon the room.

Iris Manning was, predictably, the one who broke it. "Th-this is crazy!" she cried. "This... None of this is evidence! None of this _proves_ I had anything to do with Nathan's death!"

"You're absolutely right, Ms. Manning," Beckett said, stepping forward. "Proof is what the police deal with. After Mr. Castle shared his theory, I had our crime scene investigators take a closer look at the shower and towel in the master bathroom. You did your best to clean up, but you couldn't get it all. We found traces of blood in the shower, and hairs stuck in the drain and in the towel. DNA proves it's female, and doesn't match any of the staff who worked on the penthouse. It also doesn't share any familial match to Nathan Stafford." She crossed her arms over her chest. "That was enough to get search warrants on your apartment and financials. My detectives are combing both as we speak. How long do you think it'll take us to find evidence of your insider trading? How long until we get a warrant for your DNA and compare it to the hairs?"

The silence returned. Iris Manning looked between Castle and Beckett, barely seeming to notice any of the other stares anymore. Finally, she swallowed audibly. "I want a lawyer," she rasped.

"Tell him to meet you at the precinct. Stand up." Castle smoothly stepped aside; Beckett took his place behind the secretary's chair. "You're under arrest on suspicion of murder."

The click of the handcuffs around Iris Manning's wrist seemed to echo in that huge room.

* * *

"Who do you think leaked?"

"Well, it wasn't _me_."

On the table between Beckett and Castle was the latest issue of the _Post_ , the headline blaring atop a photo of Iris Manning in handcuffs being led into the precinct: THE MISTRESS DID IT — Writer Exposes Mogul's Murderer.

Beckett paused to nod at the sommelier who brought their wine before taking up the conversation again. "I know. I just hate it when the jury pool's tainted before we even go to trial."

"Well, I have every confidence that you'll get a confession before it gets anywhere near a courtroom."

Beckett raised her wine glass. "I'm working on it." Their glasses chimed gently against each other. The air around them hummed with low conversation from other tables. "So what about their treatment of police?"

"Hm?"

"When all this started, you were saying something about how Golden Age mystery novels treated the police."

"Ah! Yes! Golden Age mysteries tended to treat their police as bumbling, dense, stubborn idiots. You can see shadows of it with Conan Doyle's Lestrade, but it got really bad in later works where the protagonist was an independent investigator. Of course, that was done so the solo detective's brilliance could shine even greater, but..." Castle smiled gently. "I think it's better when the police and the detective can work together, when they can... complement each other's skill sets and capabilities. The influence and resources of the official, the fresh perspective and out-of-the-box thinking of the unofficial... I don't see why those two forces have to be in conflict. Combined, I think they can accomplish a lot more than they can alone."

Beckett grinned. "I completely agree. So, are you satisfied with your, uh, 'little grey cells'?"

"I think so. I just needed to get it out of my system and prove something to myself."

"Prove something to the guy at your signing, you mean."

"Well... maybe. I mean, how likely is it that he'll find out what—" Castle's eyes widened, suddenly staring at something over Beckett's left shoulder.

"What?"

"That's him."

"Who's him?" She looked behind her, but could see nothing but the typical wide range of New York restaurant patrons.

"That's _the guy_. The one from my signing! The one who insulted me!" He pointed at a table where an Asian couple was dining.

"You sure?"

"Ohhh, yes. I'll never forget his face as long as I live."

"Got it out of your system, huh?" Beckett said sarcastically. Before she could say anything else, Castle was on his feet. "Where are you—?" He snatched up the copy of the _Post_ and approached the table he'd pointed out.

As Castle got nearer, he could hear the man's voice (which was less shrill and supercilious than his admittedly biased memory told him): "And when I got back, you should've _heard_ Mr. Rutherford. He was _pissed_. The worst part was—" He stopped cold when he saw the shadow of Castle fall over the table. He and his companion looked up; the latter had a small frown of confusion on her face, while the former's expression could've meant any one of a number of things.

"Here," Castle said softly, laying the _Post_ in front of the man. "Some reading material for later." From her seat, Beckett could tell that Castle was only barely suppressing the desire to yell "HA!" right in the man's face. Instead, he just turned around and left the alternately bewildered and embarrassed couple and returned to his seat.

"Feel better?" Beckett asked dryly.

Castle smiled as he lifted his wine glass. "Yes. Much."


End file.
